


bar lights

by hamletmustdie



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Heavy Drinking, Jealousy, M/M, One Shot, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 03:17:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18984139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamletmustdie/pseuds/hamletmustdie
Summary: So he pushes strands of blue hair across 2D’s forehead, tucks them safely behind his ear. His hair is soft. He goes out of his way to take care of it, although he cuts it himself and it looks like shit every time. 2D’s stopped rambling. Murdoc realizes he hasn’t responded to a word 2D’s said. Is he waiting for him to respond? What was the question, then?  The bar lights feel like they’ve dimmed.





	bar lights

On his fourth jack and coke, Murdoc begins to wonder if it’s he who’s staring at 2D or the other way around. He keeps catching his eyes. 2D keeps catching Murdoc’s. He’s only a few seats down, still laughing and talking with the crew of that night’s show. They always love him, the light and sound guys; mostly because 2D always buys them drinks if the show goes well enough, if he doesn’t swan dive into his own head too far during the performance. Usually, he does just that. Usually 2D disappears into his dressing room directly after the show ends. Whatever. He’s shy, anyway.  
Right now he isn’t very shy. Guys keep grabbing him and shaking him and he won’t quit laughing trying to sputter out the punchline of a joke he told earlier in the evening. Again, whatever. They’re also too drunk to notice.  
He glances at Murdoc again, and something a little too sober, a little less drunk-silly flashes across his face, like he’s cataloging whatever look Murdoc’s giving him to mention it later. He makes himself look away, rolling his eyes.

He’s certain this is something he’ll never get over.  
Like his own drinking and occasional drug binges, his infatuation with 2D has bloomed into something aching and terrible in the middle of his chest. He hates every person 2D brings home. This isn’t exactly the face of romance, in fact, Murdoc’s sure it’s the opposite, but God, what’s he supposed to do when 2D catches his gaze again and he grins, all toothy and stupid. Murdoc feels like throwing up.

Murdoc supposes these things happen.

As the night drags on, he does little when the men all stumble out and eventually 2D slides from his seat, climbs into the empty one beside Murdoc.

“Good show tonight, huh?”

Murdoc grumbles an answer.

“Aww, you seem grouchy-”

“I’m not,”

“- can’t ya smile for once, Muds?”

He doesn’t answer, instead asks, “Which beer is this?”

“Eighth,” 2D answers, a little too proudly.

“Huh.”

“What about you?”

“Sixth.” Somehow withheld today, despite the lack of attention 2D’s given him that night. 2D gapes at him.

“What! Let me buy you another-”

“What the hell do you mean buy me another? Your money’s my money, idiot,”

“Ah, but still-”

“Just shut up,”  
2D does, for a second, pushing his bottle between his fingers, sliding it on the dirty bar top.

“Did you have fun tonight?”

“Sure,”

“Me too,”  
Murdoc grumbles again but it goes unheard this time; 2D’s begun explaining to him all the little things which stood out best that evening. The crew, the crowd. The girls. The guys. Etcetera etcetera, Murdoc tunes most of it out. When he lets go of his bottle, Murdoc reaches over and finishes it for him. 2D hardly notices, politely calls for another, and goes on talking. Murdoc’s glad he’s decided to include him in all the bullshit he told his earlier friends.  
Jealousy pin pricking at his tongue. He can’t stand it much when 2D hangs out with just about anyone, huh?  
It isn’t a good thing, but then, neither is holding his tongue. Murdoc does it anyway. The night drags on and 2D’s chair drags closer to his own. Their knees touch. Murdoc stares ahead a lot. 2D leans on his shoulder, “Oh, and do you remember,” and suddenly he’s laughing, pressing his forehead to Murdoc’s shoulder, then he’s gripping his forearm, “Oh, good on you for still liftin’ weights,” and then he compares the sizes of their hands and then he’s talking about how funny it is that Murdoc’s shorter than him, that Murdoc could break 2D over his knee, that 2D’s a twig, and whatever whatever whatever.

He’s too pale and palming his forehead, laughing. Running fingers through his hair. Murdoc drags his glare from the clock on the wall across the room to 2D. 2D meets his eyes and the lights catch in them, and a strand of hair falls into his face. Murdoc reaches out.

His fingers brush his forehead, catch the strand. He doesn’t know why he does it. A habit, perhaps. Yeah, he tells himself that. A habit. His mother maybe did it to him when he was small enough for most memories to take on a hazy, sepia look. To feel warm. Warm enough for the likes of him, of course. She still smells like cigarettes and brandy and old perfume.

So he pushes strands of blue hair across 2D’s forehead, tucks them safely behind his ear. His hair is soft. He goes out of his way to take care of it, although he cuts it himself and it looks like shit every time. The tabloid magazines seem to like it though. Murdoc supposes it’s got that off the rails rock band look to it, and that never hurts. 2D’s stopped rambling. Murdoc realizes he hasn’t responded to a word 2D’s said. Is he waiting for him to respond? What was the question, then? The bar lights feel like they’ve dimmed.

2D opens his mouth, shuts it, looks like he’ll bolt. Murdoc’s hand is still against the side of his face, knuckles brushing, all too tender. He’s on his seventh jack and coke. It makes the edges haze. 

2D asks, “Wanna go back to my room?”

Murdoc doesn’t answer, not verbally. Instead he swings his legs off the barstool, slams down his tab and tip and takes 2D by the wrist. 2D’s stumbling and he smells like sweat and beer but it’s fine, because when doesn’t Murdoc? He takes him into his own dressing room instead of 2D’s, but 2D doesn’t seem to notice, not when Murdoc’s yanking off his shirt and throwing it aside, ripping his belt from it’s loops and letting it clatter to the floor. 2D keeps giggling that he’s going too fast, but Murdoc shuts him up when he crushes his mouth to his. He grabs his hair and holds him to a wall and hardly gives him time to catch his breath. He feels like he’s making up for lost time, although they’ve hardly known each two years, and lots of that time was spent figuring out how their mangled edges fit. Rarely did things really work out at first. 2D’s gotten good at ducking Murdoc’s punches, bottle throws, and everything else. Murdoc’s newfound success has had him feeling more and more like his father everyday. He chases the thought away by biting down on 2D’s lip, hard enough to make him whine, then he’s pushing him back down.

“This was what you wanted, right?”

“What?” 2D’s breathless.

“Tonight. At the bar. You kept lookin’ at me,” It comes out a little angry. Murdoc supposes he’s angry all the time.

“Tonight?” In the darkness, Murdoc imagines 2D’s befuddlement. Murdoc’s own chest rises and falls quickly. “Just tonight?” He laughs, breathy and shy. “Muds, I’ve been lookin’ at you for months,”

Since he can remember, Murdoc’s only found that things are good if he’s the one that curates it, if he moulds it with his own hands, and nurses it himself. Good things don’t come to him on their own accord. He’s gotta make them. Relationships always felt less like relationships and more like physical reassurance of his own existence. He’s never been a good lover.  
That evening, Murdoc finds himself a little less aggressive, and little more desperate to be gentle. 2D laughs at him when he tells him all the little hints that Murdoc found irritating. He laughs because this is exactly what he thought was happening, that Murdoc was a brooding asshole that either hated him or was totally in love with him, and he was just relieved it was the latter.  
Murdoc’s quite awkward with compassion, at least when he’s too aware of it. His hands feel awkward when he tries to hold 2D’s face, and they sweat when their fingers clasp and he pins him to the shitty futon pushed into the corner of their shitty dressing rooms. Their noses keep bumping into each other, their teeth clicking together. 2D’s all giggles and gasping and holding onto Murdoc’s back as if he’s trying deliberately to break his heart. He’s encouraging and loud, yanking at Murdoc’s hair and kissing him slow and breathy. He insists on lying entangled with him all night. Insists on picking up one of Murdoc’s sweaters and tugging it on in the morning. Not like anyone’ll notice, he says, but Murdoc knows Russ will notice right away, after he’s noticed the bruises and the hickies.

“You coulda told me earlier,” 2D says to him, half whispering. There’re no windows in these dressing rooms, and Murdoc thinks on how sunlight falls across 2D’s face, illuminates the ever present bags beneath his eyes. He wishes there were windows. “I would’ve listened. I listened last night,”

He shrugs, back to 2D. “You coulda told me, too,”

“Would you have listened?”

“No,”

“Well,” 2D is grinning. Murdoc pretends he doesn’t hear it in his tone, the way he’s leaning forward, waiting for Murdoc to turn around so he might plant a kiss on the middle of his forehead. WIth a hangover, it’s hard to be gentle, but 2D coaxes it out of him.

**Author's Note:**

> "Oh your hands are so big, heheehhe that is sooooo crazy, can you believe that? wooooww"


End file.
